The Letter
by Sicaria Snape
Summary: A letter causes a stir between two people...
1. The Beginning

            I sat there in utter astonishment, reading and re-reading a letter that had been written for no one.  Its simple beauty and utter honesty were something that one had a hard time finding these days, and that I could scarce believe were in my two hands.  Absentmindedly, I pushed my long, brown hair away from my eyes to better see the treasure I had come across.  I had found it just lying on my table at one of my favorite cafés just off of Diagon Alley.  I came here maybe once or twice a week, sat in the same table, in the same corner, and, it seemed, pondered the same things over a strong cup of coffee.

            Today would be different.  I had The Letter to wonder over.  I flipped it over, and looked once again for more to this artist's writing.  I tried to deduce what sort of person would write such a thing.  It said simply:

_To My One,_

_I will love you wholly and completely, without question or compromise, without reason or want.  But You, who are perfect in infinite ways, how will You ever love me?_

It was left unsigned, and with no clue as to how long it had been sitting there behind the napkin rack.  Had the person left it there for a reason?  Was someone supposed to be coming to find the letter?  Deciding that must be it, I carefully folded the letter back up and made sure it was left the way I had found it.  Gathering my study materials, I left the café and started making my way back to Muggle London.  If the letter was there the next time I came, I decided, I would leave some sort of message.

            The next couple of days passed quickly in a blur of classes and work.  The two things in my life that took up most of my time, and left me too tired to do much else.  I headed to my café in eager anticipation.  I was hoping the letter was still there, but I knew that if the person who it was meant for had not found it by now, surely the waitress would have cleaned it off.

            It was still there.  Right where I had left it, tucked neatly behind the napkin rack.  I took it out, read it once again, and then pulled out a bic pen, and wrote on the back of the note:

_To The Artist,_

_I do not mean to offend, but feel I must tell you this; your words stun the heart and weave a magic around a person.  It should be easy for anyone to love you._

It had taken me two cups of coffee, and thirty minutes, but I felt that I had something simple and explanatory enough to almost rival the author of the original letter.  Almost.


	2. The Figure

Over the course of the next week I became completely absorbed in my work, and didn't even think of going back to the café until one day when I had pushed myself too far.  At the brink of a nervous break down, I returned to the café with a good book tucked under my arm.  A warm cup of coffee and a good book would, I knew, work wonders on the state of my mind.

I was passing by the windows of the café, when I looked in to see someone sitting at my table.  The letter didn't even occur to me until I saw the figure stand up, and start walking toward the exit in the back of the shoppe.  

I bolted through the front door, and tried to make it to the back in time to grab the stranger's attention, but with a swish of black cape they were gone before I made it halfway across the floor.

Dejected, I sat down at my little table, and, after ordering a large cup of coffee, ceremoniously looked under the napkin holder.

It was there!  Over the course of a week it had been coffee stained and ripped a bit, but my writing and the stranger's were still there.  Not only was the writing from last week there, but a new reply had been scrawled neatly into a corner.

_Mystery Respondent-_

_Thank you for the kind words on my writing.  I enjoy scribbling meaningless passages from time to time.  As for your comment, you do not know me, and therefore do not completely understand why no one, I am absolutely certain, will ever love me._

That was, quite possibly, one of the saddest things I had ever heard anyone say about themselves.  How would it feel to be completely certain that no one in the world cares about you?  I couldn't even begin to imagine.

I read for a good hour and a half, at least, before I realized that I should more than likely be on my way.  I still had research to do that evening, and the night ahead was only going to get longer the more I procrastinated.  Before I left, I grabbed a pen from my bag, and quickly wrote on another corner of the paper:

_To the Author:_

_I am quite certain that if I were to meet you, I would barely be able to form one negative opinion about you, let alone enough to loathe you so adamantly.  No one who writes as beautifully as you do can be completely devoid of a heart._

Quickly, I slipped it under the napkin holder, grabbed my book, and began the process of waiting until next week to check for a reply from the mystery author who was making my life more interesting than it had been since the school days with Harry Potter.


	3. The Encounter

The next chance I had to get to my quaint café was ruined by the most unlikely of people imaginable.  

Professor Snape.

I had walked in through the front door, and had stopped to pick up a copy of The Daily Prophet.  I heard the bell over the door jingle as I was pausing through the articles, but I was too absorbed to look up.  Finally, I tucked the paper under my arm, weaved my way through some tables, and started heading to my usual corner.  However, someone was fast approaching my retreat from the other side.

"Professor Snape," I said, surprise showing in my voice.  We had come to a stand still in front of my little table.  I hoped he wasn't planning on sitting there, but I wasn't about to throw myself into the seat.  I like to think I have developed a bit more class than that over the years.

"Miss Granger," he said, inclining his head ever so slightly.  

We both paused, and I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

"How are you?" I finally inquired.

"Quite well, Miss Granger, and yourself?"

"I'm doing well, thank you," I answered.  

He clasped his hands behind his back before finally asking, "Do you come here often, or is this just a pleasant coincidence?"

His manner was still one of the cold, stand-offish man I had known all seven years at Hogwarts.  The tone of his voice, even now, made my blood run cold and my knees tremble.

"I enjoy coming here quite often, in fact," I replied as levelly as possible.

"By yourself?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"As you see." 

"Well, as much as I would love to carry on a trite conversation with you, I do have some work to finish."

"It was a pleasure seeing you again, Professor Snape," I said with a bit of sarcasm, as we both turned to leave.

"The pleasure was all mine, Miss Granger," he said smoothly, as we departed each other's company.

I was completely vexed.  We were sitting at tables on either side mine, but I couldn't very well get up and look under the napkin holder on the table between us with him being aware of my every move.  I was quite certain that even though he appeared engrossed in his work, he was keeping his proverbial eye on me.

After a good half an hour of idly flipping through the newspaper, and sipping a luke-warm cup of coffee, Professor Snape got up, and, throwing an exasperated look in my direction, left the coffee shoppe.

As soon as he was out of sight, I practically dove for the napkin holder.  The paper was still tucked away underneath, and with much anticipation I opened up the crinkled, tattered piece of paper.

There was no reply.

Utterly dejected, I sighed, and flopped back against the seat.  Had I said something to make this person offended?  Or could it be that they hadn't had a chance to come to the café recently?

Whatever the reason, it would have to wait again until next week.


	4. The Advice

Professor Severus Snape read and re-read the letter that he had pulled from underneath the napkin holder.  He was sitting in his usual seat, in his favorite bustling café, but his demeanor wasn't one of a person who was relaxed.  On the contrary, his hands were shaking, and his face had taken on a much paler shade than usual as he read over and over, _"I am quite certain that if I were to meet you, I would barely be able to form one negative opinion about you, let alone enough to loathe you so adamantly."_

It was then that Professor Snape did something that he had never done before.  In fact, had he been in a more clear state of mind, it's unlikely he would have even thought of doing it.  

He quickly scrawled on the paper, "_Meet me here Monday, at __8pm__.  I wish very much to meet you." And then, without another thought, he stuffed it back under the napkin holder and left the café._

***********

Hermione, the next day, was letting her cup of coffee go cold as she pondered the new, brief message that had been left for her.  Monday would give her a couple of days to prepare, to think about it.  She wasn't sure she wanted to meet this person.  There was something to be said for mystery.

She hastily scrawled, "_I will see you on Monday at __8pm__."  If she changed her mind, and if she didn't show up, it would be a loss, definitely, but losing someone she never met before would be easy to overcome.  Or at least, that was her reasoning._

************

When she got back to her flat later that evening, she called the one person she could count on for good advice.  She hastily dialed Terry's number, and he assured her that he would be over as soon as he could.

When the doorbell rang, she opened her door to reveal Terry Boot.  A twenty something, blond haired, blue eyed young man, he was any girl's dream.  The thing that deterred most women was his missing leg, which had been taken from him when he was still a baby by a large polar bear.

"Hi, Hermione," he grinned, as he used his crutches to maneuver his way into her apartment.

"New crutches, Terry?" Hermione asked.  "Very stylish."

"I thought so when I laid down a hundred and fifty pounds for them," he smiled ruefully.  "But I know you didn't invite me over here to swoon over my fashionable crutches."

Hermione laughed.  "It's true.  I have other things on my mind."  Hermione lead Terry into her sitting area, and he sat down with a sigh.  "Can I get you anything, Terry?" Hermione asked him on the way to the kitchen.  "Tea?  Coffee?"

"Do you have any pumpkin juice?" Terry called back to her.  With satisfaction he heard her laugh.

"A coke then," she said, reappearing.

"You know me too well," Terry replied.  He took a sip from the can, and then said, "So tell me, what is it?  What's eating away at the great Hermione Granger?"

And with that, Hermione launched into the whole story, as well as she knew it, and Terry listened carefully, every now and then making a small noise in acknowledgement.  

"I just don't know what to do," Hermione concluded.  "Do I meet him, or do I just wrap this up here and now."

"Hermione," Terry began.  "What else would you be doing at eight o'clock on Monday?"

"Well, probably studying or doing some more work," Hermione trailed off.

"See?  You need this kind of adventure.  An adventure just for you.  The days of gallivanting around with Harry Potter are over.  It's time for you to spice up your own life."

"You have a point, Terry," Hermione admitted.  Terry's cell phone rang.

"Do you mind?" he asked, gesturing to his phone.

"Go ahead," Hermione told him, and she took his empty can and hers into the kitchen.  

"That was Lisa," he said.  "She wants my good advice and company like a certain someone I know."

"Well, thanks for coming over at the drop of a hat," Hermione told him, as he got up.  

"Anytime, Hermione," Terry said, as Hermione opened the door for him.  "Just tell me one thing."  
  


"What would that be?" Hermione asked him.

"Is it my sexy body that really attracts you girls?"  
  


"Good-bye, Terry," Hermione laughed, as he headed down the hall.

"'Bye, Mione," Terry called back, and disappeared down the stairs.

Hermione waited in her open doorway until she heard Terry's crutches fade into the distance.  Then she headed back inside, made herself a cup of tea, and thought about what she should wear at eight o'clock on Monday.  


End file.
